


His Loss

by NervousOtaku



Category: Original Work
Genre: Autobiography, Real Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 20:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17815082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku
Summary: There was a story I was told.It opened with, “Did I ever tell you you have another brother somewhere?”





	His Loss

There was a story I was told.

It opened with, “Did I ever tell you you have another brother somewhere?”

And I looked up and shook my head and said no. I didn't know. I thought it was just me, the oldest, my brother, and my sisters.

My father, a beautiful woman, tired from working long shifts, nodded and said yes.

She told me about his mother. Someone she dated before meeting my mother, a woman with a baby boy already. My father loved this woman. Loved her son. But, she said, this woman was crazy. Psychotic. Stupid.

One day, my father said, the woman got pregnant.

Then they broke up.

My father described fighting for custody for years. She described saving all her money, only just paying her bills, putting everything into legal fees so she could see her son, her firstborn child. Her son.

But she never could.

And the year came where he turned eighteen, and my father managed to meet him. She said they spoke for half an hour and parted ways. That she left that meeting feeling good. But then not much later, she got a message from him, telling her she was stupid, abusive, and evil. He never wanted to see her again. If she tried to contact him, he'd kill her.

And my father sighed, looking even more tired than before, and said, “Fine.”

She said he married young. He has a kid of his own, around ten years old by the time I'm writing this. But my father doesn't know anything about this kid. Her grandchild. She says she's willing to bet that after meeting her, his son spoke to his mother. She says he inherited her crazy, her stupid, and if he didn't want her around, she wasn't going to fight him.

Then my father stopped talking and picked up her phone. I didn't know what to say. Before I could, she'd handed me her phone, open to a social media account. The profile picture was of a man with a shaved head and a thin, dark beard, grinning as he hugged a pale baby close. The bio declared that the guy was a chill dude who liked metal, punk, and classic rock.

“That's your brother,” my father told me, “And if he didn't want me around, I wasn't going to fight him.”

And I looked at that picture and thought of how much my father works. How much she makes now. I thought of the numbers I hear other people say in legal fees. I thought of how miserable my father must have been for eighteen years trying to be part of this man's life. I thought of how spoiled I am, how if I want something, I need only ask and have it handed to me. I thought of how for minimal work on my part, my father would hand me the moon on a stick, the world on a plate, and the sun in a pickle jar.

And I looked up at my father, squared my shoulders, and said, “His loss.”

I have, in this world, an older half-brother. Apparently, as of the time I'm writing this, he lives in a city only a few hours away from my college campus. And maybe one day, by some stroke of luck, he sees this and knows who I'm talking about, he'll be shocked. I know the chances of that happening are so low they almost don't exist. But in a way, I hope he does.

I hope he sees this and knows he missed out. He missed out on a father who would tear apart the world if anyone hurt him. On a father who will always keep the door unlocked, a light on, and a bed made. A father who first and foremost, no matter how miserable she has to be in turn, values the lives and happiness of her children, above all else. Above herself, her happiness, her hobbies, her own physical and mental wellbeing. She would live in a town she hates, in a house she hates, for more than twenty years, to ensure her children have time to make friends, to never be the new kid. She would work hours upon hours of overtime to pay the bills for her children so that they don't have to work— as of writing this, I have never held a job, because my parents always tell me not to worry, that they'll take care of me. And I hope that one day, my older brother sees this and knows he missed out.

So when my father tells me about this crazy woman's crazy son, and how he will kill my father if she contacts him, I'll continue to square my shoulders, tip my chin back defiantly, and declare, “His loss.”


End file.
